ld.

"Perhaps," continued Meliora, as a new and consolatory idea struck
her, "perhaps even if you had sent in the picture, it might have been
returned, or put in the octagon room, or among the miniatures, where
nobody could see it; and that would have been much worse, would it not?"

"I suppose so; and, indeed, I will be quite patient and content."

Patient she was, but not content. It was scarcely possible. Nevertheless
she quitted Miss Vanbrugh with smiles; and when she again sought her
mother's chamber, it was with smiles too--or, at least, with that
soft sweetness which was in Olive like a smile. When she had left Mrs.
Rothesay to take her afternoon's sleep, she thought what she was to do
to pass away the hours that, in spite of herself, dragged very wearily.
This day was so different to what she had hoped. No eager delighted
"last touches" to her beloved picture; no exhibiting it in its best
light, in all the glory of the frame. It lay neglected below--she could
not bear to look at it. The day was clear and bright--just the sort of
day for painting; but Olive felt that the very sight of the poor picture
would be more than she could bear. She did not go near it, but put on
her bonnet and walked out.

"Courage! hope!" sang the larks to her, high up above the green lanes;
but her heart was too sad to hear them. A year, a whole year, lost!--a
whole year to wait for the next hope! And a year seems so long when one
has scarcely counted twenty. Afterwards, how fast it flies!

"Perhaps," she said, her thoughts taking their colour from the general
weariness of her spirits, "perhaps Miss Vanbrugh was right, and I might
have had the picture returned. It cannot be very good, or it would
not have taken such long and constant labour. Genius, they say, never
toils--all comes by inspiration. It may be that I have no genius; well,
then, where is the use of my labouring to excel!--indeed, where is the
use of my living at all?"

"Alas! how little is known of the struggles of young, half-formed
genius! struggles not only with the world, but with itself; a hopeless,
miserable bearing-down; a sense of utter unworthiness and self-contempt.
At times, when the inner life, the soul's lamp, burns dimly, there rises
the piteous moan, 'Fool, fool! why strivest thou in vain? Thou hast
deceived thyself: thou art no better than any brainless ass that plods
through life.' And then the world grows so dull, and one's life seems so
worthless, t